by Deryn Lake
“Do you think Mrs. Bussell will confess then?” asked John, genuinely surprised.
“No. But she could make a slip or conduct herself in such a manner that our suspicions will be confirmed and she can be brought to me for further questioning.”
“But how to tie her in with the assassins, if assassins indeed they were?”
“There are ways. Large amounts of money being drawn from a bank; suspicious meetings with strangers coming to the house. All that sort of thing. If she is our woman then we will nail her, never fear.”
“He seems very confident,” said John to Joe as they descended the stairs.
“It is very rare indeed, Sir, for a murdered man to leave behind the name of the person he believes will kill him, together with full details of the motive for so doing.”
“Do you believe Mrs. Bussell is responsible, Joe?”
“Yes, Sir, I do. Cutpurses? I don’t think so. Even if they were disturbed by the watch they’d have had the rings from the man’s fingers even if it meant the fingers going as well.”
“I’m sure you’ve hit on the right answer. Of course they would. So where are you off to now? To see Ham and Raven?”
“No, first Sukie and Little Will, two of our more reliable peachers.”
“I remember them,” answered John, grimacing at the memory of the kidnap of Mary Ann Whittingham, Sir John Fielding’s adopted daughter, and the part the two peachers had played in rescuing her.
“And you, Sir?”
“To the shop to mix up some physicks for Mrs. Rayner and her hysterical sister. Then on to Bloomsbury Square to deliver them and at the same time find out where the ghastly Bussell resides.”
“Will it be convenient for me to call for you in Nassau Street at nine o’clock tomorrow morning? Then we can proceed on to interview the suspect.”
John smiled. “I wonder what she would do if she heard herself called that.”
“Rant against authority, I dare say. Probably call Sir John and his men the most corrupt load of fobs ever to hold public office.”
John laughed. “Do you know, I think you’re right.”
“Think of being married to such a blower,” said Joe, looking grim.
“Perhaps,” John answered thoughtfully, “as an act of self defence, Mr. Bussell has become just as nasty as she is.”
As the Apothecary, carrying his medical bag and wearing serious dark visiting clothes, approached the house in Bloomsbury Square, a strange mixture of sounds greeted his ears. Distantly but penetratingly, a woman was screaming fit to bring the walls down, while another female voice was shouting the word ‘Stop’, presumably at the screamer. Meanwhile, yet another woman was calling out to both to be calm but becoming somewhat distressed herself in the process. It sounded like a scene from hell’s kitchen and it was with a great deal of trepidation that John rang the bell to gain admittance.
As the door opened, the sound intensified, and the footman who answered looked apologetic. Despite this, he was opening his mouth to say that the ladies were not receiving and would have done so had not John forestalled him.
“I have an appointment with Mrs. Rayner. She asked me to call with some medicaments. My card.” And the Apothecary swept it on to the tray.
“Very good, Sir. If you would step inside I will inform Mrs. Rayner that you are here.”
“Thank you,” John answered solemnly and put on his grave Apothecary’s face.
The footman returned within a few minutes. “If you will follow me, Sir. Mrs. Rayner will see you in the drawing room. It is on the first floor.”
The wine and spirits import business must certainly provide those who traded in it with rich pickings, John thought as he followed the servant upstairs. For the house was well appointed and had fine floors and decoration, and many beautiful paintings, some old and valuable, others merely of family members. Over the fireplace of the drawing room hung a full-length portrait of Aidan Fenchurch himself, probably aged about forty, his face less florid - unless this were merely the artist’s flattery - but the crab-like eyes still staring suspiciously out upon the world. Just for a minute John gazed at it, wondering what it could have been about the man that had driven Ariadne into such a frenzy, then decided that Aidan must have had hidden charms and been a powerful performer in the bedchamber.
There was a rustle of skirts behind him and John, looking over his shoulder, saw that Jocasta Rayner had joined him. He bowed low.
“Madam, I have brought the physick that you requested.”
“Then give me some now for the love of God. I’ll ring for a glass. Truly, Mr. Rawlings, I am in dire straits and could do with a draught immediately.”
She looked terrible, John thought. Her skin stretched tightly over her bones, her small eyes red with weeping.
“My dear girl,” he said, forgetting himself, “you have not fared well since last we met.”
Jocasta shook her head. “It’s Evalina. She is driving me insane. She hasn’t stopped screaming since news of father’s death was brought to us.”
“But that was the night before last. Surely you aren’t serious?”
Mrs. Rayner laid her hand on his arm. “Listen. Be silent a moment. Do you hear that?”
He certainly could. The bellowing that had greeted him outside the door was twice as loud in the house.
“But surely her voice should have given up by now. By rights she should be hoarse.”
“By rights, yes,” Jocasta answered bitterly. “But there are no rights as far as Evalina is concerned. Because of her devil’s mark she has ruled the roost since she was a toddling child.”
“Devil’s mark!” exclaimed the Apothecary. “What do you mean by that?”
“She has a birthmark on her cheek, some would call it a port wine stain. She blames it for all her ills. Says it precluded her from marriage and happiness. I told her to paint, patch and powder but she would have none of it. Father felt guilty about it, thought he was the cause, because he had a similar thing on his lower back…” She caught the Apothecary’s eye and almost giggled. “Oh very well, his buttock. Anyway, he believed he had passed the blemish on to her and spoilt Evelina half to death as a result. Of course, the beauty of our family is Louisa but he hardly spared her the time of day. No wonder…”
“No wonder what?”
“Nothing. Anyway, my elder sister is going to bring this household to the verge of collapse unless you can do something drastic. Tell me. Apothecary, have you anything with you that can silence her?”
“A strong sedative, one that induces deep sleep, might well be the answer.”
“At least it would give us a temporary respite.” Jocasta sighed. “Now, please do attend to me. I am at the very end of my resources I assure you.”
John asked a reasonable question. “What about Mr. Rayner? Could he not bring calm to the situation?”
Jocasta shot him a dark look. “Mr. Rayner is dead, Sir.”
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to be tactless.”
“It’s not your fault. You weren’t to know. I am remarkably young to be a widow so it was an easy mistake to make. I’ll tell you about it one day but now is not the time.”
“Of course not. Here let me ring for a glass. The sooner you swallow this down, the better.”
“You’re very kind,” Jocasta answered, and gave him a glance that he could not interpret.
“Now, Madam, where is your sister at present?”
“In her bedroom. I will take you to her as soon as I have calmed myself.”
The glass being brought and the physick consumed, Mrs. Rayner beckoned John to follow her, leading him up the stairs to the floor above. As they climbed, the sound of hysterics grew ever louder and the Apothecary marvelled at the stamina of anyone who could keep up such an unholy racket for an entire day and a night. Deciding that to be masterful was the only way, he flung open the bedroom door without even knocking.
An apparition reared up in the bed, an apparition that seemed to
be composed entirely of black and white, dark hair almost obscuring a pale face, a white nightdress buttoned up to the neck respectably preventing even the merest glimpse of pink flesh. From beneath the veils of hanging hair a pair of mournful black eyes, quite unlike her sister’s, gazed at the Apothecary angrily. Momentarily, the terrible screeching ceased as the apparition spoke.
“Get out! How dare you come bursting into my bedroom. Who the devil are you?”
“No. I do dare. And the name is John Rawlings,” John replied crisply.
Evalina positively gaped, then she rallied and threw her pillow at him.
“Out, out, out!” she bellowed.
“For heaven’s sake,” Jocasta remonstrated, stepping into the room. “Evalina, get a grip on yourself. Mr. Rawlings is an Apothecary and he has come to treat you.”
“I won’t be treated,” she howled in response.
“So you just want to wallow in misery do you? Dragging the rest of us down in the process.”
“Quite right,” said a voice from the depths of the bed-hang- ings, and a woman that John hadn’t noticed, standing in the shadow as she had been, stepped forward.
This, he thought, must be Millicent for she was the epitome of a maiden cousin allowed to live with her rich relations because her own had fallen on hard times. Small, neat, earnest, far from beautiful but also not plain, she was an archetype of so many unfortunate unmarried ladies who relied on the charity of others.
“Don’t you interfere,” Evalina shouted, turning towards her. “Just because I am the only one that grieves for poor Papa while the rest of you shed crocodile tears.”
“Oh how could you,” Millicent remonstrated, and sniffed into a handkerchief trimmed with rather poor quality lace.
Jocasta lost her temper. “What a terrible thing to say. You should be ashamed of yourself, you witch. We are all cut to the quick but some of us control ourselves for the sake of the rest. Damn you, Evalina, you can fend for yourself. Come Millicent, Mr. Rawlings, let us leave her to her own devices.”
Back went Evalina’s head and out came a bellow fit not only to wake the dead but set them dancing.
John turned to Jocasta. “You’re right. There’s no dealing with her. I would suggest a total fast, though. Starving usually brings hysterics to an end.”
Evalina shot him a malevolent glare to which he responded by pulling a hideous face, carefully moving away from the other two women as he did so. Weeping, Millicent hurried past him but the Apothecary, very gently, caught her arm.
“Please let me give you something soothing. I can see you are deeply distressed.”
“Oh dear,” the poor woman answered tearfully, and scuttled ahead of him and Jocasta down the stairs. They followed at a more sober pace.
“Did you really mean that?” asked Jocasta.
“About starving her? Yes, certainly. Obviously she is grieved to lose her father, especially in such horrific circumstances, but quite frankly I consider such a show to be attention seeking and no more. Order the servants to give her nothing but fluids for the next twenty-four hours and I am sure you will soon find a change in attitude.”
“But I don’t think I can cope with that noise much longer.”
“Then I’ll put a good dose of laudanum into some wine, that should render her unconscious for a while.”
“It won’t kill her, will it?”
“Of course not. An overdose would but I assure you that I will measure it out very carefully.”
Jocasta gave a half smile. “Perhaps I should have some.”
“You don’t need it,” John answered seriously. “I believe that you are possibly a very strong woman indeed.”
In the drawing room into which he had first been show, Millicent awaited him. Standing in a comer, back turned, shoulders heaving, she looked like a tragic little mouse. In a great rush of sympathy the Apothecary went to her side and put his arm round her. She jumped as only a maiden lady could, and moved away. Very contrite, John bowed.
“Madam, I did not mean to give offence. Only to offer comfort.”
She turned to face him, all confusion, her small face working with emotion. “It is just that I am so upset, Sir. Aidan was very good to me, took me in when my father died, deeply in debt. Without my cousin I tremble to think what my future would have been. That is why his bmtal death affects me so badly. If he had ended in his bed it would have been bad enough, but to go like that, bleeding in the street…” Millicent fought nobly to control her sobs but lost the battle.
“May I give you a soothing draught?” John asked. “I assure you that I am a recognised Apothecary and not some quack.”
“Of course you are, I never doubted it for a moment.” She looked bewildered. “An Apothecary I mean, not a quack.” Her cheeks quivered. “Oh dear, I sound very foolish, don’t I?”
“No,” said Jocasta, coming to join them. “You sound just like our Cousin Millicent.” She cuddled the older woman to her.
“She was our governess, you know. She looked after us when our mother died.”
Millicent, still clearly embarrassed, began to jabber slightly. “Of course it was most fortuitous - not dear Dorothy’s death of course, I didn’t mean that. No, it was just the timing. Papa went into debt - so very, very badly - and died in that horrible gaol just as Dorothy quitted this life. Naturally Aidan didn’t want to put his girls into the hands of a stranger and as I had been a governess to the Delameres - such a good family - he asked me if I would consider the position. I was only too happy to accept, as you can guess, Mr. Rawlings.”
“Indeed I can.”
“I was twenty-six at the time but felt as if life had just begun when Aidan offered me a home.”
It was a tale so similar to those he had heard from other poor relations that the whole story seemed familiar, yet the Apothecary’s sympathies were stirred. Unless endowed with great physical charms, girls without means had little chance of securing a good match and were frequently forced to act as governesses to other people’s children.
“How kind of him,” he murmured.
Her eyes filled with tears. “And now he has gone. Poor Aidan. Whatever his weaknesses he did not deserve such a fate.”
John was longing to ask what those weaknesses might have been but thought it more circumspect not to do so. However, he hazarded a shrewd guess that Millicent knew of her late employer’s affair with Ariadne Bussell, a fact that she had kept secret from his daughters.
“It was indeed a most grim end,” he said now. “But pray do not distress yourself. Allow me to give you some physick.” And he fished in his medical bag, then poured out a deep measure which he handed to her.
Millicent sipped at it in true spinsterish fashion and John had a vision of her going through life like that, always taking little sips of everything, be it food, drink, or carnality. Never attacking anything with gusto, always careful, always cautious, a woman of small appetite in every way.
“It’s a little sour,” she said, and gave a timid laugh.
“Drink it down,” advised Jocasta. “It did me good. Come on, Millie.”
Her cousin took another tiny mouthful, then put the glass down and wept again. “Oh, what are we going to do without him?” she asked mournfully.
“If you’re worried about your future, stop now,” Jocasta said. “Papa has left Foxfire Hall to me - or so he always promised. I shall probably go to live there and, of course, you will be my companion.”
“You will marry again,” said Millicent sombrely. “I have no doubt of that.”
Jocasta shrugged. “Perhaps. Who knows? I have certainly met no one to match Horatio as yet.”
“How long ago did your husband die?” John asked.
“Eighteen months. It was very sudden. Admittedly he was older than I, but none the less it was unexpected.”
“What happened?”
“He must have eaten something that disagreed with him, or so the doctor thought. He had violent stomach pains, sickness and laxe
s, and was dead by morning. Poor dear soul. It was considered that the mushrooms he consumed were poisonous. I had none because I have never been fond of them.”
The Apothecary nodded. “One can’t be too careful with fungi. You really must be able to differentiate between the toxic and the harmless.”
Millicent spoke up. “When I was a girl - such a very long time ago - “ She smiled a little archly. “We used to go picking in the woods. That was in the days before Father lost his fortune. Anyway, Mama would carefully examine everything we brought back. For poison, you see. She was most particular.”
“Very wise,” said John.
Jocasta exhaled her breath in a bitter sound. “Poor Horatio. I still can’t think how it happened. Do you remember, Millie, how the cook took all the blame and left our employment hurriedly. But really it was misadventure.”
The conversation was getting more sombre by the minute and tears from both women seemed imminent. The Apothecary frantically wondered how he could possibly lighten the situation but was saved by a wild gurgling scream from the upper floor. All three looked at one another.
“Evalina,” said Jocasta, and, “I’ll deal with her,” said John, snatching his bag and sprinting up the stairs before the other two could even get a start. On the edge of anger, he entered the room of Aidan Fenchurch’s eldest unmarried daughter.
“How dare you!” she expostulated.
“More to the point, have you no respect?” he answered furiously.
She hadn’t expected that and gaped, not an attractive sight from a woman who had spent the last thirty-six hours in bed without attending to her toilette.
“You should be ashamed,” John thundered. “With your father lying in the mortuary, you are now the head of the family. And what do you do? Lie slummocky in your sheets, wailing like a banshee and resembling a gorgon. You have the worst end of the staff, Madam. Rise up, wash, dress, and show a little dignity. Why, a child of twelve would behave in a more seemly manner than you can muster. Shame on you.”